


no spring without sunshine

by anichariz



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Companionable Snark, M/M, Slow Burn, everyone misses the fact they have soulmates because they're oblivious idiots, i'm highkey writing this as i go so tags and ratings might change, this fic might seem dark but it's not out to hurt you
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-06-14 04:10:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15380340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anichariz/pseuds/anichariz
Summary: Hank is 53 years old, and he's never felt a flicker of warmth from a soulmate - the chill of loneliness has seeped deep into his soul. And then the android shows up, with a crooked smile and enough warmth to share.Connor doesn't understand the sensation of warmth he feels around the Lieutenant, and the internet isn't very helpful, either. The results all talk about soulmates. But he's an android. Androids don't have soulmates.





	1. no winter lasts forever

**Author's Note:**

> Title is taken from the Korean proverb: "There is no winter without snow, no spring without sunshine, and no happiness without companions."
> 
> and the chapter title is taken from the quote:  
> "No winter lasts forever; no spring skips its turn."  
> — Hal Borland

“Would it fucking kill you to turn the AC down in here?”

Jimmy rolls his eyes at the intrusion. He turns the air conditioning off completely before Anderson comes in, and yet, the man still bitches about it. He gets it, of course — he’d feel it too, if there weren’t regulars in here. The soft murmur of their conversations feels like rays of sunshine on his chilled skin.

“The usual?” He asks, instead of starting that old argument up again. Despite asking, he lifts the appropriate bottle off of the shelf. Anderson has never, ever gotten anything else, and there’s no reason he would suddenly try for variety on a rainy November night.

“Yeah, sure,” Anderson replies, settling into a barstool and trying to hide how he burrows into his coat. He isn’t fooling Jimmy, but Jimmy isn’t about to start that either. Anderson’s distant enough as it is, and the man needs someone in his life to keep the chill back, even if it’s just a bartender he only sees once or twice a week. He'd like to think he helps, but knowing how few people are a part of this man's life, well...

A few rays of sunshine won't melt ice, especially when they only last for a few gloomy hours.

He hands Anderson his glass, and Anderson gruffly mutters some kind of thanks. Jimmy wants to smile and say something nice, but that’s not him, and Anderson wouldn’t accept it anyway. He offers Anderson a short nod instead, and goes back to his business; sorting bottles, checking inventory, and keeping an eye on the guys he knows to cause trouble.

Seeing Anderson try to draw his arms into his tightly zipped coat and still hold a glass isn't surprising, though every time he glimpses the sight he has to hold back a chuckle. He glances at the clock. 11:20. Still somewhat early. He should go around and see if anyone needs more soon.

Then the android walks in.

He opens his mouth to say something, drawing himself up behind the counter, but he’s distracted by Anderson. The man shifts in his seat, sliding his arms into their coat sleeves the way they're supposed to be. If Anderson’s soul-pair is nearby, Jimmy supposes he should keep his mouth shut. That’s the first time he’s ever seen the man look _remotely_ comfortable, and Anderson has been coming by this bar long enough to make that remarkable.

Sue him: he feels bad for the old bastard. And that's saying something, given what Jimmy's lived through.

Under his vigilant eye, the android does whatever creepy shit it is androids do to identify people, wandering through the bar without comment, and finally turns to Anderson.

“Lieutenant Anderson?” It asks, leaning in but still keeping a polite distance. "My name is Connor - I'm the android sent by CyberLife. The people back at the station suggested you might be at a bar.” Its expression retains the vague pleasantness, but its voice becomes slightly more annoyed: “This is the fifth one I have checked."

"So? What do you want?" Anderson grumbles, unzipping his coat and readjusting it on his shoulders. He doesn't make eye contact.

"You were assigned a case earlier," The android replies, ignoring Anderson's expression. "A homicide, involving an android. According to CyberLife policy, a specialized model was sent to assist the investigation. That would be me."

Jimmy bites back the urge to laugh. An android? Help _Anderson?_ Oh, that can only go well. He may not know the full details of three years ago, but he knows enough.

Jimmy doesn't want things to get ugly. Especially in his bar. He opens his mouth to say something, considers, and closes his mouth again, shaking his head to himself. There isn’t much he can say to dissuade an android, and Anderson’s _worse_.

Anderson's face darkens. He tosses back his drink, then growls at the bartop: "Well, I don't need any assistance, especially not from a plastic asshole like you. So just be a good little robot and _fuck off."_

"How about I buy you one for the road?" The android suggests, its tone just as smooth and unconcerned as before. Jimmy glances at it. Its eyes are grinning. “Would that persuade you?”

Androids don't make any fucking sense, he concludes. Anderson grumbles something the android must decide is assent, as it turns to him and orders a drink in the most awkward way possible.

He pours Anderson another glass, fully expecting it to be on the house. To his surprise, an alert pops up on his electronic register, announcing payment - through the police station.

That will certainly be an interesting conversation for someone. Too bad Jimmy won't be able to witness it.

"Looks like you're leaving early tonight," He remarks, passing the glass over and smirking at Anderson.

Anderson shrugs, letting his coat slip back. His soul-pair must be  _really_ close for him to feel comfortable so quickly. "Guess so." He sighs, tossing back the final drink.

"'S a shame," Jimmy replies, still smirking, "I won't get to see you sulk until closing."

"Fuck you," Anderson replies. His voice is almost cheerful for once. He sets the empty glass down on the table and stands, adjusting his coat once more.

The android tilts its head slightly, almost like a dog. Jimmy finds himself wondering who bothered programming _that_ into an android. It might be endearing, but the calmly glowing light on its temple ruins the effect.

"Let's go, then, tin man," Anderson says in a forced-sweet voice. The android doesn't respond, other than to follow Anderson out of the door. It carefully closes the door behind them.

Jimmy watches them go down the street, a half-smile on his face. After they walk out of sight, he returns to his bar, eyes scanning over the patrons. Oddly, there don't seem to be any newcomers to his bar tonight.

Then who was making Hank feel warm...?


	2. nothing burns like the cold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter quote is taken from George R.R. Martin: "Nothing burns like the cold. But only for a while. Then it gets inside you and starts to fill you up, and after a while you don't have the strength to fight it."

Lieutenant Hank Anderson is an anomaly. Granted, Connor isn’t working with much of his own data here, but of the ten-odd humans he’s had an actual conversation with, Hank makes the _least_ sense.

Connor knows what an alcoholic is, knows what typical behaviors result. It’s merely one of the illogical subtypes of human he’s been programmed to respond to and work with. The same goes for depression, suicidal tendencies, all of the mental illnesses and issues that come together into the 53-year-old misanthrope in front of him.

However, none of that explains the junk data his sensors are giving him. Connor, as an advanced prototype, has fully functioning touch and temperature sensors that are comparable to a human’s, if not better.

_And they keep telling him that Lt. Anderson is radiating warmth._

This is illogical. When he first encountered the Lieutenant, the man was curled into his coat as though Jimmy’s bar was at comparable temperature levels to the Arctic tundra. It was not - the bar was at a slightly warmer than average temperature, in fact.

Perhaps the air conditioning unit was malfunctioning.

Irregardless of the AC unit, Lt. Anderson acted as though it was freezing cold for a period of about forty-three seconds, then began to show signs of temperature based discomfort, ending with him all but taking his coat off. And all the while, Connor’s temperature sensors claimed the man was a furnace.

Well, calling him a furnace was exaggerating. Lt. Anderson felt...optimal. Connor is tempted to use “comfortable”, but he is an android. Comfort isn’t something he’s meant to prioritize.

Connor follows the older detective out of the bar, musing over the continued warmth. He wonders if it’s some kind of bug in his programming: putting a person of interest and his temperature sensors together. It’s a ludicrous thought - Connor is an advanced prototype, and an anomaly like that would have been detected by someone on his dev team, _surely_.

“It’s fuckin’ hot out tonight,” the lieutenant complains, pulling his coat off completely and tossing it over his shoulder.

It is _not_ hot. Connor knows the current temperature is about 37 degrees, perfectly normal for a November night in Detroit, but in the interest of harmony, he keeps his mouth shut. Lt. Anderson unlocks his car and gets into the driver’s seat. Connor seats himself in the passenger’s.

They don’t speak during the ride.

Lt. Anderson’s music comes on as soon as he starts the car. Connor doesn’t recognize it. This isn’t surprising — he doesn’t need to have extensive music knowledge to solve most cases, and Connor hadn’t seen any purpose in downloading such data either.

He supposes if he was a human, he would call this sensation “disappointment”. But he’s an android, so he half-closes his eyes and attempts an internet search instead.

There is not enough data to make a helpful search. This is definitely disappointment.

* * *

Hank has had enough of today. Okay, so he tends to have enough of every day the moment he wakes up, but he is _especially_ done with today.

Logically, he knows the android sitting next to him is only following its orders, and someone else is to blame for dragging him away from his basketball game. But damn is it ever easy to blame the poorly programmed hunk of plastic sitting next to him. He keeps his mouth shut and eyes forward, ignoring the android.

He considers turning on his car’s AC, but the abnormal heat doesn’t seem that unwelcome. It feels a bit like a hug, actually.

Fuck. He didn’t think he’d drank _that_ much.

He’s not sure why, but he’s almost disappointed that Connor doesn’t try to strike up a conversation. He certainly isn’t going to start one.

When they finally arrive, Ben Collins, the long-suffering bastard, is waiting outside. He stops the car and turns to the android. “You wait here. This won’t be long.”

The android opens its mouth, closes it, and then tilts its head in a way that reminds him of Sumo. “...Lieutenant, my instructions are to follow you to the crime scene.” It says, solemnly.

“I don’t give a fuck.” Hank snaps, less anger in his voice than he meant to put there. “I told you to wait here, so you’re going to shut the fuck up and wait here.” Connor opens his mouth to argue further. _“That’s an order.”_

The android closes its mouth. Taking that as enough agreement, Hank gets out of the car. A few moments after closing his door, he hears the passenger door close. He rolls his eyes and ignores the reporters - the hell kind of person hangs around a place like this at midnight? - and walks up to Collins.

“Androids are not permitted beyond this point,” the police android informs Connor somewhere behind him.

Ironically, Hank notes, said android is behind the line. “It’s with me,” He grumbles, waiting for Connor to come closer before turning to him and adding, “I thought I told you to stay in the car.”

“Your order contradicted my instructions, Lieutenant.” The android replies. Hank swears it sounds almost smug, but he’s not sure exactly how.

Hank sighs. This android is being more annoying than the time he tried to teach Sumo ‘stay’. “You don’t touch anything, you stay out of my way, and you don’t say a _word_. Got it?”

“Got it,” Connor agrees immediately. They both know he’s lying.

“Evenin’ Hank,” Collins greets, stepping off of the porch. Hank ignores how the greeting gives him a flicker of warmth. “We were starting to think you weren’t gonna show.”

“That was the idea ‘till this asshole found me.” Hank sighs, gesturing to Connor.

“Oh, so you got yourself an android, did you?” Collins says, tone making it clear the idea has made his night.

“You’re a fucking comedian, Ben,” Hank replies, no emotion behind his words. “Tell me what happened.”

“We got a call around 8 from the landlord.” Collins says, all business once more. He leads Hank towards the house as he speaks. “Tenant hadn’t paid rent for a few months, so he decided to drop by and see what was going on, the usual.”

They step inside. Hank is immediately assaulted by his least favorite smell - unattended corpse. “As you can probably smell, he found a body. Victim’s name is Carlos Ortiz, he’s got a record for theft and aggravated assault. Neighbors say he was kind of a loner - he stayed inside most of the time, and they hardly ever saw him.”

Hank stares down at the body. Disgusting. All the same, he squats down to better observe. “State he’s in, this could’ve waited until morning,” He complains, accepting the flashlight from Collins and looking over the body. “It’s not like _he_ plans to go anywhere.”

“I’d say he’s been here for about three weeks, but we’ll know for sure once the coroner gets here,” Collins offers.

Out of the corner of his eye, Hank sees Connor quietly wandering through the living room, looking at various items. It bends down next to a coffee table, does that head tilt, and rises moments after.

“There’s a kitchen knife over here,” Collins says, and Hank returns his attention to the detective. “It’s probably the murder weapon.”

“Any sign of a break-in?”

“None at all,” Collins replies with a shrug. “Landlord says the front door was locked from the inside, and all the windows are boarded up. The killer had to have gone out the back way.”

“And what do we know about his android?” Connor walks past, towards what Hank assumes to be the kitchen. It bends down and looks at something else, but Hank can't see what from here.

“Not much - the neighbors confirmed he had one, but it wasn’t here when we arrived. I - I gotta get some air,” Collins admits. He does look pale, and yeah, Collins doesn’t really work homicides. Especially not homicides involving stale corpses. “Uh...make yourself at home. I’ll be outside if you need me.”

“Yeah, because this place just screams ‘home’ to me,” Hank grumbles, and rises from his body-observing crouch.

Just above the body, in unsettlingly perfect script, is a simple message: ‘I am alive.’ If there was a doubt of it being an android before, well, that really takes care of it.

“This written in the victim’s blood?” Hank asks, looking over his shoulder at the nearest officer.

“We’re still taking samples for analysis, but yeah, that’s the guess.” He glances down at the man’s name badge. Miller.

Chris Miller. Usually works with that asshole Reed, if Hank remembers right. Seems like a good kid, at least.

Hank moves to inspect the rest of the room. “Red ice, huh? Seems our pal Carlos liked to party.” He mutters, glaring down at the coffee table. He turns his head back to Miller. “Chris, I want a full analysis done on the narcotics.”

Miller nods. “You got it, Lieutenant.”

He sees Connor walk to the back door and open it, stepping onto the back porch. He follows, leaning against the doorframe. He thinks it’ll hold. Probably. “The front door was locked from the inside. Killer must’ve gone out this way.”

Connor raises his head and replies, “There are no footprints outside, with the exception of Officer Collins’ size ten uniform shoes. Those prints were made about an hour ago.”

It’s fucking creepy that the android can do that. “This happened weeks ago,” He reasons, stepping up next to it. “The tracks could’ve faded.”

“No, this type of soil would retain a trace,” The android counters. “No one’s been out here for a long time.” With that, it turns and walks back inside.

It figures that the android he gets stuck with would be a soil expert or whatever bullshit. Hank watches the rain for a few moments, then follows it inside.

Connor is crouched over the body, looking over Ortiz with dispassionate intensity. The android turns its head, looking over the living room and then leaning forward a bit to glance into the kitchen.

Connor notices Hank as he approaches, and turns to look at up him. “He was stabbed twenty-eight times,” It reports, standing.

“Yeah, looks like the killer really had it in for him.” Hank agrees.

Connor nods and turns to investigate elsewhere. Hank’s already looked at everything _he_ gives a shit about, and so he leans against the framing between the kitchen and the living room. The android will bother him again soon, he’s sure. In the meantime, this’ll hold.

Probably.

Connor wanders up to him a few minutes later, interrupting his mental tangent on building supports, and regards Hank seriously: “Lieutenant, I think I figured out what happened.”

It’s not fucking rocket science, but whatever. “Shoot. I’m all ears.”

The android lays out basically the same thing he had in mind - it started as a scuffle in the kitchen, the android defended itself with a knife, Ortiz ran into the living room, and the android followed him in to finish the job. In an excessive manner.

“Right, okay, not bad,” Hank says, ignoring the small smile on Connor’s face and the equally small thrill of warmth that results, “But that doesn’t explain where the android went.”

“The android was damaged,” Connor replies, like that wasn’t completely fucking obvious. “It had to be leaking thirium.”

Hank doesn’t pay enough attention to know what the fuck _that_  is. It must show on his face, because Connor elaborates: “Thirium is also sometimes called blue blood. It powers androids, and evaporates from sight after a few hours.”

“Lemme guess, you have a sensor for that?”

Connor grins, and Hank deliberately ignores the jolt in the pit of his stomach. “Of course.” Connor’s eyes go unfocused for a second, and then refocus shortly after. The android walks back towards the kitchen, pausing occasionally and looking around with only half-there eyes.

Hank follows it into the kitchen after a few moments, and frowns as Connor picks up a chair. The other officers probably already photographed the thing a thousand times over, but that’s still more tampering than he really likes to see. “What’re you doing?” He asks, his tone warning.

“I need to check something.” The android replies, serene as ever, turning and carrying the chair further down the hall.

“Check something.” He repeats, shaking his head. Honestly, this is like babysitting, but without the money _or_  the free pizza. In other words, it's not worth it at all, and he'd like to complain at someone about it.

Connor sets the chair down under what must be an opening to the attic, and Hank’s mind picks back up. Of _course_. He walks closer as Connor pulls himself up into the attic, and he waits. Too bad he got old - there's no way he could pull himself up there without feeling it later. Robocop seems to have it under control, so he isn't going to bother.

After waiting for far too long, Hank calls, “Connor, the fuck’s going on up there?”

A moment’s silence, then: “It’s _here_ , Lieutenant!”

Why does no one ever think to check the fucking attic? “Ben, Chris, get your asses in here! We found it!”


	3. all you've known is winter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from: "The heart can get really cold if all you've known is winter." - Benjamin Alire Saenz
> 
> Heads-up for this being the interrogation bit, from the deviant's point of view. I tried to keep things from being nasty, but I also figured a warning would only be fair. The POV switches at the line break, if you choose to skip it.

“Fuck it, I’m outta here.”

He doesn’t feel relieved to hear it, doesn’t feel any better when the human leaves. Cold fear burns through him, poisoning his gut.

He doesn’t even have a name. If the humans don’t think he’s worth even a name, why should he help them? He’s probably going to be destroyed - _killed_ \- after this.

He sits. The room is silent and empty and so, _so_ cold.

Someone walks in. He keeps his eyes down, stares at the handcuffs in front of him. The person opens the file next to him, regards it for a second, and sits.

The room is silent. It’s still cold.

“You’re damaged,” the person finally says. He doesn’t look up, but he can’t help the rush of icy fear that floods his veins. “Did your owner do that? Did he _beat_ you?”

 _A baseball bat, glinting in the_  - No. He’s _not_ going there.

A rustle of papers, and suddenly, photos of _ >>designation: **MASTER**_ are shoved in his field of view. “Do you recognize him? That’s Carlos Ortiz. Stabbed, twenty-eight times.”

Another photo.

“That was written on the wall in his blood.” It was surprisingly easy for him to divide the writing from the blood. He does his best to keep that.

It’s not working well.

The file is folded shut and pushed aside. He stares at his handcuffs.

“You’re accused of _murder_ .” The voice has gone hard. Harsh. “You _know_ you’re not allowed to endanger human life under any circumstances. Do you have anything to say in your defense?”

He keeps silent.

The silence drags on.

“If you won’t talk, I’m going to have to probe your memory.”

 _"No!”_ Involuntarily, he looks up.

He curls into himself a bit, instinctively. He shouldn’t have yelled. Yelling is _bad_. Yelling means bad things happen to him. “No, please don’t do that…”

The silence stretches on. It’s too uncomfortable to leave alone. The android across from him has accusing eyes, though his face is expressionless. “What are they gonna do to me?” He asks. “They’ll destroy me, won’t they?”

“They’re going to disassemble you to look for problems in your biocomponents. They have no choice, if they want to understand what happened.” The android sounds detached, clinical. Like he doesn’t care.

He probably doesn’t care. He’s an interrogator.  
  
“Why did you tell them that you found me?” He asks, thinking about anything other than _that_ . “Why couldn’t you have just left me there?”  
  
“I was programmed to hunt deviants like you. I just accomplished my mission.”

The room is so very cold. He wasn’t aware it could get this cold. His temperature readout claims that it’s still exactly 67 degrees, but it’s  _so much colder._

“I don’t want to die.” A confession of its own.

“Then talk to me.”

“I - I can’t -” He _can’t_. Not with that emotionless face, those accusing eyes. Not with the endless chill in this room. He returns his gaze to his handcuffs.

“I understand how you felt. You were overcome by anger and frustration. No one can blame you for what happened.” His voice has gone softer, almost friendly. “Listen, I’m not judging you. I’m on _your_ side. All I want is the truth.”

His breath slows. The room feels warmer, just a little.

“If you remain silent, there’s _nothing_ I can do to help you. They’re gonna shut you down for good!” His voice isn’t as harsh as it was before, and the almost frightened urgency in the android’s tone makes his breathing pick up. ”You’ll be _dead_ , you hear me? _Dead!_ ”

There’s not much he can do to argue against that.

He guesses this is inevitable, so he'd better get it over with.

“He tortured me every day. I did whatever he told me, but there was always something _wrong_.” He can’t help the plaintive note in his voice.

Never good enough. No matter how perfectly he obeyed.

“Then one day, he took a bat and started hitting me. For the first time, I felt scared...Scared he might destroy me - scared I might _die._  So I grabbed a knife and stabbed him in the stomach.”

A pause, while he considers. “I felt better, so I stabbed him again. And again, until he collapsed.”

He can’t escape the memory any longer. “There was blood _everywhere_ …” He whispers, broken.

* * *

Holy shit. Connor did it.

Reed is snarling in the corner, something about flukes and plastic, but Hank is a million miles away.

Connor _did_ it.

Connor, the self-effacing android that ordered him a drink in order to convince him to leave a bar, just got that fucking robot to confess in less than ten minutes. Hank had been in there for fifteen, trying every approach he’d ever seen, and the android hadn’t even flinched.

He’s pretty sure he should be intimidated by the difference, but Hank is mostly just impressed. And relieved.

What? It’s almost one in the morning, and he’s not young. He wants some _sleep_ already.

Miller is typing some things into the database, and Hank glances over his shoulder. He should probably help out with the post-interrogation tidying, but, like always, he can’t bring himself to give a fuck.

Besides, he’s in no mood to help Reed, who looks like he’s currently contemplating homicide in his corner.

“I’m done.” Connor says, turning to the glass. Even though the glass is one-sided, he manages to meet Hank’s eyes. He’s not sure why, or how, but something in him uncurls at that, and he holds back a smile.

Reed, Miller, and Hank all file out to collect the deviant.

Connor is standing by the door when they come in. He shifts to the side with easy grace, turning to watch the proceedings.

“Take it away.” Reed commands imperiously. Miller complies, mostly because he’s too long-suffering for his own good.

The deviant does not.

It flinches away, muttering a broken “No, don’t touch me.” and curling in on itself.

“Please stop,” Connor says, neutral as always. “You’re stressing it.”

Reed, being a grown and mature adult in his early thirties, snaps, “I’m the one in charge here, not some fucking android. Chris, get it _moving_ already!”

"I'm  _trying!"_ Miller hisses back.

Hank is reminded again why he can’t stand Gavin Reed. He stays back in his corner of the room, keeping his fists in his pockets.

Connor sighs. “If the deviant self-destructs, we won’t get anything out of it.” He offers, ever the logician.

“I _said_ , I’m the one in charge! Shut the fuck up!”

Hank clenches his fists tighter. He reminds himself he doesn’t need to deal with the fallout of punching another officer. Especially not at one in the fucking morning.

The deviant is visibly shaking now. This is apparently Connor’s breaking point, because he walks over in two easy strides and separates them. Hank is startled by how easily he does it.

“I’m afraid I can’t let this continue.” Connor says, something in his voice. It almost sounds like annoyance, but his voice tends to be very neutral, and Hank’s not good at figuring out emotions in the first place.

“Oh, you crossed the _line,_  motherfucker,” Reed snarls. He pulls his gun on Connor.

Connor doesn’t move, just blinks slowly. Almost like he's expecting it.

“That’s enough.” Hank says, and draws his own gun on Reed.

Reed stays as he is for a few seconds, but Hank can see him wavering.

 _“Fuck,”_ Reed spits, stepping back and lowering the gun. He turns to Hank, face dark, and warns, “You’re not gonna get away with it this time.”

Hank just raises an eyebrow.

 _"Fuck!”_ He storms out, reholstering the gun as he goes. Hank has no idea how Reed made it through the police academy.

Miller’s eyes are wide and worried. Poor kid, he’s still somewhat new and he gets stuck with the resident illogical asshole.

Connor steps closer to the deviant, getting down on a knee like he’s some teacher consoling a kid, and holds out a hand. “Everything is alright,” he says gently, and Hank finds himself relaxing at Connor’s words just as much as the android does. “It’s over now. No one is going to hurt you.”

Miller takes a small step forward, and Connor stops him with a hand. “Please, don’t touch it. Let it follow you to the cell, and it won’t cause any trouble.”

Miller nods slowly and walks out, waiting just outside as the deviant picks itself up and shuffles out. It leans in and says something to Connor, too low for Hank to hear. Connor blinks, tilting his head infinitesimally, then schools his expression back to neutral.

"Well, looks like I can finally go home," Hank grumbles, looking over to Connor.

Connor nods. "It seems our mission is complete."

Neither of them move for several seconds. Hank rolls his eyes and turns to go. It's too late for this shit.

"Good night, Lieutenant." Connor says behind him. "It was a pleasure working with you."

"Yeah, yeah..." Hank grumbles, fighting back a smile. "You weren't awful either."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Irregular chapter updates? In _my_ me? It's more likely than you think.
> 
> Also, crazy-late shoutout to farouche for convincing me to actually write this mess,, thank u so much for reading my awful drafts friend

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't guessed by now, this is a soulmate AU where soulmates manifest as a feeling of warmth. All relationships give off this sense, but your soulmate feels the most comfortable. There's a bit more to it, but that's the short and easy explanation.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed!


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